One Irresistible Force, One Immovable Object, One Bed
by redbuttonhole
Summary: "In the whole world, there are not two less likely people to find themselves in some sort of 'clinch'. What could possibly happen?" Famous last words, Sherlock. Response to a prompt in the lj kink meme thread for a Johnlock story where John is totally straight, Sherlock is totally celebate, but somehow they get together. Fluff, UST, Sleepy!Sherlock, tiny bit sexy.
1. Chapter 1

"Ah yes, here we are. Reservation under Watson. Here's your key."

"Key?' said John. "Don't you mean keys? I reserved two rooms."

The desk clerk frowned down at her computer. "No, it says quite clearly here, one room for one night. Double bed." She looked up and smiled at him, as if that should settle the issue.

John shifted his weight, trying to hide his annoyance and discomfort. He and Sherlock had driven four hours to get to this tiny village on the promise of a very interesting case, in a terrible rainstorm that seemed to have followed them all the way from London. All he wanted now was to check into his room and dry off a bit before they went off in search of further clues, and this complacent woman was not making his life any easier.

"There's been a mistake, then," he said, trying to keep a smile on his face, and sensing that it was probably looking pinched and not all that friendly. "I requested two rooms. We need two rooms."

The woman glanced at Sherlock, who was wandering around the lobby, analyzing God only knew what tiny details, imperceptible to ordinary humans. "Are you sure?" she said. "Because –"

"Yes, I'm sure," said John, a bit louder and more forcefully than he intended. "Why would I not be sure?" He couldn't help glaring at her, as if daring her to make the usual assumption – the assumption that had haunted him ever since he first met Sherlock. The woman raised her eyebrows but did not make the comment.

"I'm very sorry sir," she said instead. "But it's our only room. We're all booked up."

"Fine," said John. "Can you recommend another inn in the area, then?"

She smiled sympathetically. "I'm afraid not, sir. It's not a big village, we're the only inn in town. And there's a theater festival one town over, so we've gotten a lot of their overflow. Most of the rooms in this region have been booked for months. You were lucky to get this one. There is a campground just outside of town, I could – "

John stared at her. "Have you seen this weather?" he said, no longer bothering to disguise his annoyance. "I'm not camping in a bloody flood."

Suddenly Sherlock appeared at his elbow.

"Problem?"

John gritted his teeth and handed the key to Sherlock.

"It's fine," he said. "They've lost our second room, but we'll manage. I suppose I'll just spend the night in the hire car."

John was surprised to see an amused expression on Sherlock's face. "Such a martyr," he commented in his precise tones.

"Well I don't see you offering!"

The desk clerk broke in. "I'm terribly sorry about the mix-up," she said. "Are you sure you wouldn't be able share, just for the night? There is a rather comfortable chair in the room, perhaps one of you -"

"No," said John sharply, and the woman looked taken aback. He softened his tone. "I'm sorry, but no. It's just not – "

"What my friend means," said Sherlock, that same infuriatingly amused expression on his face, "is that he is not gay. Isn't that right, John?" As John felt himself turning pink, Sherlock raised his voice to make sure the handful of people milling about the lobby could all hear him. "We're not a couple, everyone. And this man is most assuredly not a homosexual. Just for the record, there has never been a straighter man than John Hamish Watson." He turned back to John and lowered his voice to its normal volume. "That is what you were trying to say, isn't it?"

The desk clerk hid a giggle behind her hand, and John clenched his fists at his sides, willing himself not to begin this evening by punching his flatmate's lights out.

"We'll take the room," said Sherlock, moving toward the stairs. "Coming?"

"Sherlock, I—"

"Calm yourself, John, and trust me when I say I am not propositioning you. I really don't see what the problem is – you know I barely sleep when I'm on a case. This one has already kept me up for two nights straight, I don't see why this evening should be any different. No need to kip in the car, you can have the whole bed all to yourself. I will be busy. Working."

"The whole night?"

"I expect so, given the way this case is going." He unlocked the door to the room and held it open for John to enter. "As a matter of fact, I don't know how you can sleep, when someone out there is being so delightfully interesting. But since you seem to require such physical release, you may at least reassure yourself that I shall provide no obstacle."

Sherlock sat in the chintzy armchair the desk clerk had mentioned while John went into the bathroom to towel off his wet hair.

"You know," commented Sherlock from the other room, "you don't always have to be quite so testy. I'm going to become offended one day. There are people in the world who wouldn't mind if everyone thought they were sharing a bed with me. Indeed, you may find it strange, but there are people in this world who wouldn't mind sharing a bed with me."

John exited the bathroom and lowered a glare at Sherlock. "It's not that," he said. "Believe me, I am well aware of how many people would line up for this chance."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Really?" he said, his tone more teasing than genuinely surprised. "Who, for example?"

John rolled his eyes. "Well, Molly Hooper, obviously."

"Mmm," said Sherlock, not disagreeing. "Anyone else?"

John considered a bit. "Moriarty's a good bet."

"Oh, definitely. And?"

"Christ, I don't know. Anderson? The rest of his little fan club?"

"Most likely. But I think you're missing a few."

"Is that right?"

"Yes."

John tried to remain annoyed, but he couldn't help a tinge of amusement creeping into his voice. Only Sherlock would be capable of conducting a conversation like this as if he were talking about where the best fish and chips place in town was.

"Who d'you have in mind, then?"

Sherlock leaned forward, his hands on his knees, his keen eyes looking unflinchingly at John. "Everyone," he said. "Everyone but you."

John couldn't maintain his straight face anymore – a giggle bubbled up from deep inside him. "Oh, everyone," he repeated. "Is that all? Sherlock, you arrogant tosser."

"Do you disagree?"

John sat down on the bed, still grinning at the absurdity of the conversation. "No," he said, "I don't suppose I do. So why don't you do them all a favor then, and invite _them_ on minibreak with you?"

Sherlock scowled, having picked up that John was having a go at him. "I told you before, not my area. If the whole world wants to bed me, that's their affair, not mine."

John scrutinized Sherlock closely, wondering if he dared ask about something that had always puzzled him. He wasn't likely to get another such opportunity. "Why do you do it, then?"

"Sorry?"

"I may be straight, but don't think I haven't noticed. The bespoke suits, the hours you spend on those curls every morning. The vast array of expensive grooming products littering every surface of our bathroom. If you're not trying to pull anyone, why do you bother with all that?"

"It's useful," said Sherlock, still a little cross. "For the work. I find that if I can make someone want me, they become much more malleable. Eager to please, more likely to slip up and make errors of judgment."

"And you never have any trouble with that? Making people want you?"

Sherlock made a show of considering this question, though John was fairly sure there was only one possible answer. "Mmm, no," he said at last. "It's a quite trivial problem."

"And I'm the only one in the world immune to your charms, is that it?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that."

"Ah, so you admit there are others like me."

"No, I deny that you are immune. It's only that I haven't put in any effort with you."

John raised his eyebrows, starting to feel a bit uncomfortable again with the turn this conversation was taking. "You think the only reason I'm not attracted to you is you haven't tried to seduce me?"

"Why would I bother? You already do everything I want," he said, flashing a broad, artificial grin.

"That's not true," said John, his temper rising again. He wracked his mind for some examples Sherlock's demands that he had refused, but came up empty. "Oh hell, maybe it is."

"Come," said Sherlock, gazing out the window. "It's finally dark, and the rain has let up a bit. The game is on!"

Sherlock, it turned out, was overly optimistic about the state of the weather. It was still pouring when they went out, and it continued to pour for the next four hours as they tromped around rural pastures and hedgerows in search of the clue that would break open this case. By 10 at night, John had had enough. The cold and wet felt bone deep, they weren't making any progress, and he could tell he was only hindering Sherlock's search.

"Sod this," he said at last over the howling wind. "I'm going back to the room. I'll see you in the morning." Sherlock waved him a dismissal, unconcerned.

Back at the room, John took a long hot bath, put on a dry t-shirt and pyjamas, and fell hard asleep almost as soon as he crawled into bed.


	2. Chapter 2

The alarm clock on the bedside table read just past one in the morning when John was awakened by the door opening and the overhead light being flicked on. He squinted into the sudden brightness. "Sherlock? Is that you? Are you all right?"

"Boring," said Sherlock, clearly in a high pet. "I can't believe I stalked around in the mud and rain for hours, only to find the watch wasn't missing at all."

"So you solved it, then."

Sherlock threw himself into the chair, not bothering to remove his sodden coat. His shirt was plastered to his chest, and his curls sent rivulets of rainwater dripping down his face. "Yes, and bloody disappointing it was. All those fascinating clues! I thought I was dealing with a real intellect, but it all became totally ordinary on closer examination."

"Sherlock," said John, "you can't spend the night in those clothes. You'll catch pneumonia, if you haven't already. Go take a bath, warm yourself up."

Sherlock begrudgingly obeyed, and John started to settle back to sleep as he heard the water running. Then something occurred to him.

"Sherlock," he called.

"Mmm?"

"Do you have anything to change into? When you're done?"

"Suit will be dry 'nough in the morning," Sherlock called back, the sleepiness that struck him whenever he finished a case already invading his speech patterns. John sighed to himself.

"Yes, fine, but what about before then?"

"What about it?"

"You're bloody well not coming out of that bathroom starkers, is what." John glanced around the room for a solution to this problem. Finally he settled on the sheet pooled around him in the bed. He disentangled it from the rest of the covers and handed it through the cracked bathroom door. "Here," he said. "You can wrap yourself in this when you get out."

Sherlock grunted his acquiescence, and John shut off the light and got back into bed, falling asleep again almost instantly. He was awakened a short while later by a change in pressure on the mattress. "Sherlock? Oh for God's sake, what are you doing?"

Sure enough, Sherlock was clambering under the covers into bed with him. At least he had the decency to keep the sheet wrapped close around him.

"I'm exhausted, John. Need to sleep."

"Sherlock, we agreed on this. You promised me the whole bed for the night. Can't you go sleep in the chair, at least?"

"I'm taller," mumbled Sherlock, covers already up around his ears, his face mashed into the pillow. "You take the damn chair."

John looked over at it and rolled his eyes. "Ah great, yeah, now that you've dumped your sopping clothes all over it. Don't think I'll be doing that."

"Then stay in bed, 'm not bothered. It'll be warmer, anyway – th' room's freezing." It was true, the heating system did not seem to have been adjusted to account for the unseasonable weather.

"Sherlock, don't you dare fall asleep. This is not – I'm not going to –"

Sherlock sat up suddenly, his curls already a tangled mess where he had been lying on them. "John," he said, "please calm yourself. As far as I have been able to deduce, your primary concern is always that other people will misapprehend your sexuality based on our proximity. But look around you – there's no one here in this room but us. And believe me, I'm the last person who needs to be convinced of your vaunted heterosexuality." John could only stare at him, caught off guard by his sudden loquacity.

"Look," Sherlock continued, "we've already well-established that you're not the slightest bit attracted to me, and I'm not the slightest bit interested in… well, anyone. What could possibly happen? In the whole world, there are not two less likely people to find themselves in some sort of 'clinch'. So please, for five minutes, try to forget what total strangers might conclude and let us both get some sleep, for God's sake."

And with that, he flopped himself back down on the pillow and tugged the covers up around his head, making it clear he would brook no further argument. Not seeing many other options, John turned his back on Sherlock, curled as much as possible away from him, and tried again to sleep.

Around 4 am, John was awakened for the third time that night by the sound of gentle snoring, and a sensation of warm breath on his ear. He lay still in the bed with his eyes closed, warm and sleep drunk, while he pieced together what this sensory input might indicate. The deduction made, his eyes flew open.

"Oy, Sherlock!"

At the sound of his name, he stirred slightly in his sleep, but his head remained nuzzled into John's neck, his chest pressed against John's back, his long arm slung carelessly over John's hip.

"Sherlock," said John again, and this time jabbed an elbow back into the other man's shoulder.

"Ow," said Sherlock, and he pulled away from John's body, allowing a shocking blast of cold air to slip in between them. "What's the matter?" he slurred, his voice still fuzzy with sleep.

John only propped himself on one elbow and glared at him in answer. As Sherlock rubbed the sleep from his eyes and became gradually aware of their relative positions in the bed, comprehension dawned visibly on the detective's face.

"Oh," he said. "Was I…?" His cheeks were flushed slightly pink, but it was hard to tell whether it was from sleep or embarrassment. "I'm very sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to – I mean, I don't usually – I – I haven't shared a bed with anyone since I was a child. I didn't know I would do that."

Try as he might to hold onto it, John felt his anger and irritation melting away. It was very hard not to be charmed by the sight of someone usually so self-assured, stammering in bashful contrition.

"I'll get up now," Sherlock continued, his eyes still lowered shyly. "Go take a bit of a walk until morning, and let you get some rest." Sherlock pushed down his end of the covers and moved to get up, perhaps unaware of the fact that the sheet he had worn to bed had slipped down to his hips in the night.

"Wait, don't," said John, just in time to spare himself an eyeful of naked Sherlock. He sighed. "Don't go, it's not your fault. It's still raining out, and you need a proper sleep, after the week you've had. Just - try to stay on the other side of the bed, all right?"

Sherlock nodded, his eyes big and apologetic, and John curled away from him again, a wide expanse of bed between them. Yet for all he tried, John could not find sleep again. Shuddering vibrations emanating from the far side of the bed kept jolting him out of whatever half-slumber he managed.

"For God's sake, Sherlock," he said at last. "Stop shivering. You'll drive me mad."

"I can't help it," said Sherlock through chattering teeth. "It's an autonomous function. I'm so cold – what do you want me to do?"

John thought at first to argue, but he really couldn't deny that it was downright arctic in the room at the moment, so he lapsed back into a brooding silence.

"John?" came Sherlock's voice after a little while, sounding small.

"What is it?" said John, as gently as he could. He was somewhat regretting being so hard on Sherlock all night.

"If you'd – maybe – come just a little closer..."

John was about to object, but something in Sherlock's shivering and chattering made him nervous. Sherlock had been outside in the cold and damp for an awfully long time, plus going without food or sleep for two days previous ... Whatever he said about "transport," his body was undoubtedly in a weakened state, and John would never forgive himself if Sherlock wound up hypothermic due to John's squeamishness about male bodies.

"All right," said John. "Come here. But wrap that sheet around you properly, at least." Sherlock obeyed, and gingerly they both moved toward the center of the bed. For a few minutes, they lay carefully next to each other, barely touching, but before long the desire for each others' warmth drew them inexorably closer, until their bodies were pressed together, legs and arms entwined.

John tried to drift off to sleep in this position, but he couldn't. Sherlock was being so awfully distracting. It wasn't the shivering anymore – that had stopped now that they were ensconced in a nest of blankets and limbs. It was something else. Something to do with Sherlock's warm breath ghosting against John's throat, or the way his soft curls tickled John's ear every time Sherlock adjusted his position slightly. Perhaps with the heavy scent of him, both familiar and somehow strange. Or the expressions that played across his face as he drifted in and out of dreams, the way he nibbled his lower lip from time to time, then let out a tiny sigh.

Something else, too. John ventured a quick peek beneath the blankets to be sure. Yes, there it was – half-mast and covered by the sheet, but unmistakable nonetheless.


	3. Chapter 3

The fluttering of Sherlock's eyelids indicated that he was very nearly awake, so John didn't feel too bad about nudging him the rest of the way there.

"Mmm?" he responded, the resonant sound coming from deep within his chest and throat, almost a purr.

"Sherlock," said John. But he hesitated and lost his nerve before elaborating.

"What," said Sherlock after a moment had elapsed. His eyes were still closed.

"Nothing," said John quickly. "It's just – " He hesitated again, then took a deep breath. "Are you quite certain that you're – er – incapable of sexual arousal?"

Sherlock's lids flew open, and suddenly those pale sea-green eyes were focused on John with alarming intensity.

"What?" he said sharply. He shifted his position slightly beneath the covers. "Oh," he said, and a touch of pink graced his cheekbones once again. "But I never said I was incapable of arousal, just that I'm not interested in pursuing it with anyone. " He stitched his brow, either cross or embarrassed, John wasn't sure. "It's an autonomous function, just like the shivering, brought on by certain stages of the sleep cycle." He shifted his back toward John and closed his eyes again. "So you needn't take it personally."

"Nah, of course not," said John, but he couldn't help grinning. "The great Sherlock Holmes, turned on by an ordinary human? Impossible."

"Glad you understand," mumbled Sherlock into the pillow, though from his tone he had certainly parsed John's sarcasm.

"So in that case," said John, "if a human being – say, hypothetically, me – were to run his fingers lightly along your spine... That kind of thing would have no effect on you at all." Sherlock didn't move or speak for a moment, but his shoulders tensed slightly.

"None whatsoever," he said at last.

"I see," said John, and he proceeded to perform the described movement, while for good measure exhaling a warm breath against the nape of Sherlock's neck. A delicate shiver ran through Sherlock's body, and John was fairly sure that this time it was not from cold. "Mmm," observed John, thoroughly enjoying having the upper hand for once in a debate with Sherlock. "And if I were to say, trace a circle around your nipple – " Again, John did as he described, and finished by drawing his fingers down Sherlock's chest toward his stomach. This movement was rewarded by a sharp intake of breath, and John felt Sherlock's stomach shrink and tighten beneath his hand.

"What are you doing?" said Sherlock, his eyes open again.

"An experiment," said John. "You like experiments."

Sherlock didn't answer, but he didn't stop John either as John gently pushed on his shoulder until he was lying flat on his back, then pressed a kiss against his sternum. "Nothing, then? No response?"

"John..." said Sherlock cautiously.

"What about this?" John kissed his slow way from Sherlock's sternum to his left nipple, alternating with slight pressure from the tip of his tongue. John felt more than heard the sigh that escaped from the body beneath him, and looking up toward Sherlock's face, he caught him with his head pressed back against the pillow, his pale skin flushed, his eyelids fluttering, his face haloed by a ring of dark, lustrous curls. It occurred to John that he had perhaps never seen anything so lovely in his life – and in that moment, he believed it entirely possible that this man might be the universal object of desire for all humanity.

"The other one," said Sherlock hoarsely, through a gasp.

"Mmm?" said John, having lost focus for a moment. "Oh, right." He was about to direct his attention to the other side of Sherlock's chest when Sherlock spoke again, this time his voice a good deal steadier.

"By the way," said Sherlock, "I win."

This gave John pause.

"Sorry?" he said. "You... what?"

Sherlock's pale green eyes peered at John through a haze of dark lashes. "I win," he said again. "The experiment. I proved my hypothesis."

"I see," said John. "No, I don't, actually. What was your hypothesis?"

"That I can seduce anyone in the world. Surely if I can bring John Heterosexual Watson to lick my nipples of his own volition, there is no one on the planet who stands a chance of resisting me. Can we not both agree to that?"

John raised himself up a bit and fixed a look of utter disbelief on Sherlock.

"You bastard," he said. "Is that what you thought you were doing?"

"I'd say it worked rather well."

"But that wasn't the experiment."

"Wasn't it?"

"No," said John. "The experiment was to see if you get sexual pleasure from human contact." John ran his eyes down Sherlock's body to where the sheet was now doing a very poor job of disguising his physiological response. "And I've got some damn good evidence for my hypothesis."

"Nonsense," said Sherlock, but John was pleased to note a slight tinge of uncertainty in his voice. "That's absurd."

"You mean to say that you were putting all that on?" said John. He smiled tightly and shook his head. "You're a very good actor, Sherlock, but not that good."

"And you expect me to believe that that _you_ did all that, just to prove a point?"

The two men stared at each other for a long moment, bristling competitively. At last, Sherlock looked away. "Well," he said, "it seems that both our experiments were inconclusive."

"Seems so."

"One thing to do, then."

"Is there?"

Sherlock hesitated for a breath, during which time John noticed his cheeks were once more slightly pinked. "Yes," said Sherlock. "Only further experimentation can resolve this question."

John cleared his throat and cast his eyes anywhere but at Sherlock. "Now?"

"Check out time isn't until noon, I believe. Assuming you're interested in collecting further data."

John didn't answer right away, realizing this was a time to choose his words carefully. He was aiming for something offhand, noncommittal – something that wouldn't give away too much. But somehow what came out was, "oh, _God_ yes."


End file.
